Adele watches me carefully, gauging my reaction. I struggle to reconcile this image with the man orchestrating attacks against my new family.
“Sometimes I’d find him in his study, staring at old photographs,” Valeria adds, her voice quieter now. “Not plotting violence—just lonely. Just a man who didn’t know how to stop fighting because fighting was all he had left.”
The emerald dress feels heavier in my hands. I’ve never considered that Nico Moretti might be capable of tenderness, of loneliness. That behind the vendetta might be a man as trapped by history as the rest of us.
I stand there struck by the humanity in Valeria’s stories. We’re supposed to be bitter enemies—De Luca versus Moretti—yet here we are, discussing fashion and painting techniques like old friends.
“We should go,” Adele says softly, checking her phone. “Your father will be wondering where we are.”
Valeria nods but hesitates. “Carmela, before we leave...” She pulls out her phone, hesitation flickering across her face. “Would you... Would you consider exchanging numbers? Just in case things get worse between our families.”
I blink, surprised by the boldness of her request. The urge to tell her everything rises sharply in my chest—that it’s already worse, that the attacks tearing our families apart aren’t coming from where either of us thinks, that a Russian with deep pockets and deeper ambitions is pulling strings while we point guns at each other. But I can’t. Not without Silvo’s blessing. Not here, not yet.
“I know it sounds crazy,” she continues, “but maybe we could work together somehow. Behind the scenes. If the men lose their heads completely, perhaps we could talk them down together.”
Adele watches our exchange with cautious eyes. “Val’s right. Sometimes a different perspective can defuse situations before they explode.”
I think about Silvo, about the fury in his eyes when he speaks of the Morettis. About the bodies already piling up in thisvendetta. Bodies that didn’t have to fall. I pull out my phone and nod. “Let me give you my number.”
“Women have always been the secret peacekeepers,” Valeria adds quietly. “While men wage war, we rebuild what they destroy.”
A knot forms in my stomach—not just guilt about keeping this from Silvo, but something more urgent. This girl standing in front of me, sharing stories about her lonely father and Sunday painting sessions, has no idea her family is being manipulated just as much as mine.
“Let’s hope we never need to use these,” I say, slipping my phone back into my purse. Though I already suspect we will, and sooner than either of us would like.
“Hope for peace, plan for war,” Valeria replies with a sad smile. “That’s what my father always says.”
As they turn to leave, guilt crawls up my spine—but it’s a different guilt than I expected. Not just the guilt of going behind Silvo’s back. The guilt of looking this girl in the eye and staying silent about something that could get her family killed.
32
SILVO
The phone vibrates against my desk. My father’s name flashes on the screen.
“We’re back from Sicily. We need a meeting in an hour.”
My father doesn’t waste words. Despite being retired, he still steps in when shit goes south. I hang up and rub my temples, exhaustion seeping into my bones. The situation has spiraled beyond containment. Five of our distribution centers were hit in the last week alone. Two more soldiers in the morgue.
I find Carmela in the bedroom, applying lipstick with careful precision.
“Family meeting in one hour. My parents are back.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. Something flickers across her face—hesitation? Guilt? It’s gone before I can place it.
An hour later, my parents arrive home. My mother sweeps into the study first, kissing cheeks before settling into her high-backed chair near the window. My father follows, his stride purposeful as he takes his position behind the massive oak desk, shoulders squared like a general preparing for battle.
The tension in the study sits thick as cigar smoke. My brother Fed leans against the fireplace, face drawn. Isabella perches beside Marco Rossi on the leather sofa.
“Tell me what I’ve missed,” my father says, his sharp eyes sweeping the room.
Fed and I exchange a glance.
“The attacks on our operations,” I begin. “They’re not what we thought, Father. We believed it was the Morettis behind everything—and that’s exactly what someone wanted us to think.”
My father’s eyes narrow. “Explain.”
I spread the surveillance photos across his desk. “Alexei Tartarov. His syndicate has been systematically hitting both our operations and the Morettis’, making each side believe the other is responsible. While we’ve been tearing each other apart, he’s been quietly moving into the vacuum we created.”
